


Forgotten Songs

by satsukimomoi



Series: Kissed by Ice [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2018-12-24 22:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12022695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satsukimomoi/pseuds/satsukimomoi
Summary: She rarely thought of songs anymore, and he was anything but the heroes everyone sang of. She liked it better that way.--Jaime makes a choice for himself and keeps the promise he made to another.Not really that romance-centered yet. I have a lot of character development to rewrite and make up for and i'm Dying scoob :)))





	1. Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a canon divergent rewrite of what would essentially be the beginning of Season 6 of Game of Thrones. After Lysa Arryn's murder at the hands of Petyr Baelish, Sansa is now the de facto Lady of the Vale and has shed her disguise of Alayne Stone in preparation to reclaim and rebuild Winterfell. Brienne of Tarth and my snazziest hero Mr. Podrick Payne serve as her primary guard and confidants, while Littlefinger lurks in her shadow in between grooming Robin Arryn for a lordship he will never receive. Jaime rides north from River Run when word arrives that Sansa rules at the Eyrie, resolved to honor his promise to the late Catelyn Stark, and another promise made to himself.

This wasn’t the first time that Jaime had cursed his beard. Even the slightest golden shadow on his cheeks was betrayed by flecks of silver, and the idea of plucking them out one by one seemed preferable to wearing a reminder on his face that his youth had been wasted on madmen, drunks, and more madmen.

He reminded himself not to shave. Frozen hairs on his chin would be easier than frozen skin, and Winterfell’s snows would show no mercy in the years to come, even to a somewhat gentled lion. He wondered if it would be warmer within the walls when they were rebuilt stronger than ever before, with towers so high that any invaders who tried to climb them would fall to their deaths. He wondered if it would be warmer in the godswood, where Sansa closed her eyes and whispered to herself indiscernible things which she said weren’t prayers.

He had thought to ask her once, on one of the many days that he and Brienne stood above the godswood in King’s Landing, watching Sansa as she wiped the tears that stained her cheeks, closed her eyes, and murmured things unknown. Perhaps his name on a list of people she wished dead. He couldn't imagine how long that list would have to be.

“She no longer prays,” Tyrion had said with worry pooling in his eyes. Maybe he thought he was on her list, too, or maybe because, like Jaime, she wasn’t eating.

But he never asked, never disrupted the quiet that she could only find in a few minutes of each day. Thinking on it now, he hoped his bickering with Brienne hadn't been too much of a disturbance.

He thought about Brienne, gallant and swift in her gifted armor, wielding affectionately-named steel in a world of vicious beasts and even more vicious men. Her eyes probably shone an impossibly bright shade of blue now that she was where she belonged. He almost felt guilty, as a potential obstacle on her journey as one of the last true knights that didn't only exist in the songs Sansa had forgotten. But he too, had made a promise.

Through a blanket of fog, the Bloody Gate began to ominously peek, and, true to form, he had yet to deduce how he was going to convince Arryn soldiers to allow a rogue Lannister into the Eyrie. Tyrion had done it once before, but Tyrion had been a prisoner of Catelyn Stark, and Tyrion was Tyrion. All the height that Jaime had on him, he had on Jaime in the form of wits.

Even so, just as a small man could cast a large shadow, a soldier could learn and strategize, and neither could do without a little bit of luck now and then. Jaime clumsily unbuckled the strap that held Ned Stark’s reforged sword to his waist and adjusted his seat to make room for it on the back of his saddle. With a deep breath, he rode on into the mist, unsure of whether he had reached his home or his doom.

* * *

 

“My lady, I'm not sure if I’m qualified for this, and I think it'd be best for me to fetch one of your handmaidens. I don't want to hurt your head.”

“Arya says I have the hardest head out of anyone she's ever met, and it infuriates her. I can't trust anyone else to be this close anyway, and you're gentler than you think.”

With much uncertainty, Brienne ran her large hands through Sansa’s thick curtains of hair, the inky black dye splashing into a bucket beside the tub and revealing strands of spun copper that caught the light of the candle’s dancing flame. Her knuckles were calloused and scarred, and she had furiously scrubbed the dry cracks between them before drawing Sansa’s bath, in hopes of buffing away the unsightly damage of the morning’s training. Sansa had insisted that her hands were remarkably fine, that scarred skin was harder to cut and not shameful, and she knew that better than many warriors. Her impossibly smooth, yet steely skin soaked in the tub amongst the ghosts of bruises and gashes across her back and her belly and her legs and maybe even her bones.

Sansa had once hated her skin and how easily it betrayed her ruse of perfection when struck, but now it was her armor. It would be implacable, even against the approaching winter winds in Winterfell. Brienne would have to be implacable too, as would her hands, which held and protected and fought. And compared to some, the things her hands had endured meant as little as a passing fog.

“I appreciate peace and quiet, but perhaps it may not be the best when you’re nervous,” Sansa soothed, and Brienne’s doe-like eyes snapped from her wandering mist of thoughts. Her fingers had stopped halfway through Sansa’s hair, and she quickly brushed them through before continuing to diligently wash out the dye.

“Pardon, my lady. I have little experience with so much hair, I’m afraid.”

Sansa smiled a gentle smile and squeezed out the last drops of raven from her hair before rising from the water and cocooning her damp skin in a robe. The fire-kissed waves that appeared in the mirror gave her comfort, and at last, she was once again Lady Sansa Stark. Lady Sansa Stark who belonged within the strong walls and high towers of home. She realized that Brienne had never seen them before, and she never would. But they would rebuild them together, and Brienne would cherish her hands then.

“What are you always thinking about?” Sansa turned to fully face her protector and friend. The candle lit the frosty blue in her eyes and flecks of a gray that shone more like metal.

“My lady?”

“When you grow quiet and pretend like the walls and floors are interesting. What do you think about?”

Brienne’s eyes darted around for a moment on cue, as if a pleasing response would be found in one of the stones in the wall. But maybe Sansa didn't want a pleasing response. Brienne faced her once more.

“We all have dreams, my lady. Things we wish we could do, or do over. I must think about what I can and must do, to best serve you.”

Sansa’s eyes glazed a bit with something indistinguishable. “What about people?”

Brienne’s focus was now locked tightly. “Some things can't be done without help. Thinking about those who help is inevitable, I suppose.”

“I suppose it is,” Sansa had learned to accept help to survive, and she still thought about the slight sweet breezes that some had brought to the capital’s foul air.

She thought about Tyrion’s weak, yet well-meaning jokes and the way Shae admired her hair while brushing it. She thought about the warm scent of the roses in Margaery’s garden, the ones she'd pick whenever Sansa cried. And…

“Do you think about him?” she looked at the sword propped up against the vanity, a gold lion looking right back at her from its pommel.

Jaime had always been kind and was all Tyrion ever talked about. He lacked much his little brother’s sweetness and proper manners, and she found she liked that better in a city where everyone was a liar. He didn’t try as hard to tone down the off-hand sarcasm, but he still reserved the gentlest of his quips for the days when he insisted on walking her to the gardens. The thought of her being unsupervised anywhere near the Red Keep made him nervous, but she found that many things made him nervous.

Thinking back on it, she realized that she knew next to nothing about him. She remembered Arya being fascinated by the stories of him, how he looked like a god bringing down his sword, how it was if someone had woven pure gold into his hair to crown him the greatest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms. Westeros knew him as the Lion of Lannister, and whispering “Kingslayer” behind his back didn’t change the way he stood, tall and fierce and sculpted by the Smith himself. Their father had always cut Arya’s flurry of questions short and told her to not be curious about the dishonorable.

Jaime’s cheeks were now scarred from things Sansa never asked about, and his right side was weighed down by a steel hand that he tried to hide behind his back. She always made sure to walk on his right side when she held his arm, and she could tell it was steel, even with its golden shell. The sun still caught the gold in his short hair and the strong shape of his jaw, and one still might have thought he was a god, had the playful sparkle in his eyes not carried something tired and sullen. The look was familiar to her.

“You’ve rarely asked about him since I arrived,” Brienne observed. The gold that adorned her sword was unmistakable, and she had never mentioned where she or Jaime had managed to get the Valyrian steel to make it. After learning of their promise to Catelyn Stark, it didn’t seem to matter to Sansa.

“I never had a reason to. He swore an oath to my mother, and he kept it.”

“So, why now?”

“I’ve been asking myself for years now why she would allow Jaime Lannister to walk free, how she could know that he would keep his word. How _you_ could know that he would keep his word,” Sansa clung to the memory of her lady mother. Her hair now was as vibrant as Catelyn said it one day would be.

“I didn’t always know it, my lady. In truth, I didn’t know until he swore to _me_ that he would return you to your mother, right before saving my life,” The corners of Brienne’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Once a person jumps one-handed into a bear pit for you, you start to have a little bit of faith that they will do the right thing.”

“A _bear pit?_ ” Sansa’s eyes brightened and widened, and she offered a fittingly dainty scoff to match.

“One day, I’ll tell you the whole story. I’m sure between all of us, there are plenty.”

Sansa smiled again, fully and warmly, as if to melt walls of ice. “That alone explains quite a lot,” she turned once more to catch a glimpse of the sword by the door.

The moment grew quiet, filled only with knowing looks and as much comfort as one could feel in a castle of strangers and a world of wights. It was shattered by a frantic knock on the door. Many knocks.

Sansa strode calmly to the door and opened it to a panicked Podrick Payne, beads of sweat forming along his brow.

“My lady,” he panted, his hands resting on his knees, “there’s a man...a man--”

Brienne rolled her eyes, “Get ahold of yourself, Pod, and stand up straight. What man?”

Podrick straightened a bit, still short of breath, and continued, “A man is at the Bloody Gate, requesting to see Lady Sansa. The guards have waited for your permission to fire, as he is unarmed.”

“To fire?” Sansa asked.

“The man appears to be Ser Jaime Lannister, my lady.”


	2. Crossfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me showing up to the party over a year late with coffee and an onion bagel: heyyo! it has been...a Hot Minute since i've even written anything here and i'd like to apologize in advance. my mental health has been really up and down over the past few months, and i'm trying really hard to get back on my feet. My first step is at least finishing this and maybe continuing along the adjusted storyline when i feel inspired! i tend to be so on and off with GoT because of how frustrated i get, but my love for miss stark reigns supreme, and i want to keep writing for her sake. 
> 
> to anyone who even read this story in the first place and is reading it now, i truly thank you so much.

Handing over his sword may not have been the best idea, since most knights can’t pledge their swords to noble ladies without swords. Jaime wasn’t like most knights though, so he’d manage somehow. He always did.

He was surprised enough to be let in, let alone be let in unchained. He assumed Brienne had convinced the guards, exercised her characteristic stubbornness, or made use of her towering build. He was grateful no matter which, as his track record of being in chains was bleak. The winds still brought the sour scent of hostility, but there was something else to be felt in the Eyrie that he couldn’t entirely place. It was sweet, like citrus, and it gave enough comfort to allow his thoughts to wander.

His presence seemed humorously ironic in a way, as he recalled Tyrion’s imprisonment in the Eyrie many moons ago. The thought of Jaime’s baby brother was strangely warm, as was his confidence that Jaime would damn near kill his horse riding in to fight a thousand men and bring him home. Jaime was used to protecting. It was all he knew how to do for a time, even through the poisonous whispers that always fluttered behind his back. When he began his journey to the Vale, he imagined that it would be to protect— and yet, he found that he had only squeezed through the Bloody Gate because someone was looking out for him.

The main hall was empty, save for a few more guards scattered near some of the doorways, and two more in front of the seat reserved for the ruling regent, also empty. It was rather ugly, he thought, although thrones and ruling seats in general had never been very appealing to him. Even so, it seamlessly blended into the off-whites and grays and blues that spiraled throughout the room to its very tip, the only contrast being the weathered brown of the closed Moon Door. He grimaced slightly at the thought of such a slow death, falling thousands of meters into nothingness.

_Give me a good, clean death any day._

He thought not to ask where anyone was or if anyone was going to receive him, as it seemed to be all his escorting party could do to not let him he hacked and clawed by the biting wind of a sky cell. One of them carried Jaime’s now nameless sword, and the boyish thrill in his eyes at being able to hold Valyrian steel in his hands almost made Jaime more forgiving towards the idea of being unarmed in the face of hostility. He cherished innocence and longed for his own, lost somewhere in the pages and songs that told of Ser Arthur Dayne’s glory.

The room was quiet, and the stillness caused Jaime to fidget and stir slightly, a metallic _tap tap tap_ of his nail on his golden hand. Before long, the taps were followed by footsteps, and as the guards simpered away, his focus shifted to shining cobalt armor, short curls of platinum yellow, and pools of liquid sapphire looking back at him.

Brienne smiled a smile that had been reserved for years, waiting for the right pair of eyes to see. Her left hand rested tenderly on Oathkeeper’s golden hilt. “You're missing a sword, Ser.”

“I’ve learned how to make do, my lady,” Jaime had missed the ease that came with their conversations. He couldn’t pinpoint when his japes and clever retorts had stopped being for provocation and started being for comfort, but seeing her react with a laugh or a smile or a roll of her blue doe eyes felt something like a home.

Her smile widened a bit before leveling into something intense, and her hands began to undo the buckle at her side. Oathkeeper was held out before him.

“You gave this to me with a purpose,” she stated evenly, “one that I have achieved.”

Jaime’s hand remained at his side, and the sparkle in his eyes softened into something that pulsed almost like a beating heart— a flame. He looked down at the sword, the shimmer of its gold mingling with that of its steel. Its brilliance matched the sea in her eyes, as if it had been made for her to begin with.

“It's yours. Now and always.”

The words floated in the air, and she hesitantly lowered the sword back to her side, recognizing a stubbornness that he couldn’t have picked up from anyone else.

He turned to glance back at where the guards had been. “Besides, I’m not sure it's the best idea for me to be armed in a place like this. I imagine I have _you_ to thank for even getting me past the gate alive.”

Brienne shook her head, “I’m not the one who gives those orders, Ser.”

Jaime almost didn't notice the footsteps closing in from behind her, as quiet and light as the air under a little bird’s wings. Had Sansa approached on _his_ side, she could have easily driven a blade between his ribs or through the back of his skull without making a sound. She had no blade, though. She was not a killer, yet.

Her auburn hair was still wet, woven into a tight, shiny braid that hung over her small shoulder. She stood up straighter now, and her shape carried a grace that was less of a facade and more of an armor. The deep blue-gray fabric of her gown could have been made of iron, and she may have still worn it with her head held so high. Her eyes were the same— a tired sadness still lingered, but even she, a princess with blood of Stark ice, had a fire in them that burned blue. It was stronger now than he last remembered, as was the fire that kissed her hair.

The air between them was stifling and felt as breathable as smoke. Brienne stepped back and strapped her sword to her side, and as she turned to leave the room, Sansa offered a ghost of a smile for her to steal.

He didn’t approach her, choosing only to match the blaze in her eyes with his own. Even the space surrounding her seemed pure, and he thought not to defile it. The only thing he could allow himself to take from her anymore was the first word. “Lady Stark, I’d offer you my sword, but I seem to have lost it.”

Her expression was a maze, and before he could navigate it and determine whether or not she was happy to see him, she spoke. “I confess, I have no need for your sword,” she hesitated for a moment before asking flatly, “What are you doing here, Ser?”

Jaime thought to calculate his words, but began speaking before he could try. “There would be plenty of chivalrous reasons. A noble lady can never be too well-guarded.”

“Ah— are you here to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from danger into the sunset?”

He offered a melancholy smile, noting the familiarity of mocking one’s naive childhood dreams. He momentarily recalled stories of heroic men he read as a boy, the promises he made to himself of what an honorable knight he would be to a just king. A childlike innocence in him began to resurface, until his enthusiasm was once more suppressed into something somber, and he allowed himself one step forward.

She stood unwavering and calm but inhaled sharply, as if to brace herself for words that he had been desperately holding onto for the right moment.

“I’m here to keep my promises, my lady— or die trying, if need be.”

Seeing him in such a place, one might have thought he had come riding to his death, and he wanted to say that he didn’t care if he was surrounded by enemies anymore, that he was used to it. But he said nothing, as she had probably grown as used to such a feeling as well.

Her sharp breath released in a weighted exhale, but her expression remained still as stone. She thought to emptily recite some sweet words, send him to his room, and spend the rest of the day thinking about how she could possibly keep a Lannister alive in the Eyrie. Having him killed was perhaps the easiest option, but the thought made her feel chilled and clammy. Littlefinger’s advice rang where he had always whispered it, against the shell of her ear.

_Enemies are everywhere, Alayne. Learn to use them, or to destroy them, and keep them close either way. Never let them be used against you._

But, she wasn’t Alayne. She was Sansa Stark, and people responded to being loved, not used or destroyed.

In her reverie, her eyes had wandered, yet now they locked back into focus, shades of blue and green mingling like wind through leaves. “How do you intend to serve me?”

He hadn't even practiced the vows he intended to swear, or which order might have the best ring to it. He hadn't been sure if he would even get a chance to speak them, and now that it was in front of him, he was almost afraid to reach out and take it. It wasn't like he had another hand to spare.

“I intend to return you home,” was all he could manage.

Home. Her mother and father, the snowflakes melting on Robb’s cheeks, the scrapes on bruises on Arya’s knees and elbows from chasing Bran through the training yard every afternoon. Winterfell. “My home is gone.”

“It doesn’t have to be for long,” he offered, with enough determination to possibly give her comfort.

“You intend on building a castle for me, Ser? I believe you already sent someone to aid me. What if I don’t need your help?” The icy flame in her eyes began to dance again in a flickering sparkle, and she tried to fight off the temptation to believe him. Even so, she indulged herself a moment to just _wonder_ what his promise would look like fulfilled. She had spent so many passing days longing for home that she found it difficult to remember what having it even felt like.

“In truth, my lady, you don’t _need_ anyone’s help. You’ve survived this far on your own and probably will much longer than most.”

“You’re rather pitiful at vouching for your own worth, Ser.”

“I have a knack for it, as do you for uniting people that aren’t even yours,” his jaw began to tighten as an uncontrollable tension gripped his every muscle. Seeing her here however, a woman forged of passion and steel, scarred and still perfectly pure, revived a long dormant trust and emboldened him to let the words flow like the wind beneath her wings. “I’ve already made the mistake of allowing madmen to dig their people’s graves, my lady. You've kept yours alive, and I’d like the satisfaction of knowing that I died fighting for someone who used their power right.”

Her own words clung to her lips, her palms veiled with a clammy sweat. Power had never been what her hands reached for. It wasn’t warm like a lover’s kiss or soft like a newborn babe. It wasn’t sweet like a golden lemon cake or a golden rose. Even now, as she scorned the ghost of her childhood dreams, power was just a shadow that could not give even half of what it had taken. And she looked down at her hands— slightly scratched with a bump or two, but still clean. She wasn’t sure if they were ready to be stained with blood or strong enough to hold the weight of a kingdom. They could survive though, and so could she. But Jaime?

“How much do you fear death, Ser?” she asked, almost attempting to measure how long he could last, how useful he could be. Looking at him alone was too much a mystery— the weakness found in the deep, sullen hollows of his eyes and the weight of his plated hand was offset by the power sculpted into his solid form. Maimed or not, he was still a lion, and for a moment, she felt at ease.

“I don’t, my lady,” he replied flatly, “and if I did, it wouldn’t matter. Death is coming for all of us, and it can’t stop me from protecting what matters until it’s here.”

The overt sincerity of his claim would have puzzled her, had she not been overwhelmed by the realization that, through her mummer’s dance of words and attempts to gauge what he truly wanted, he had been speaking to her with transparency all along. He had lost the game long ago, and she was almost too good of a player to crave honesty now. Almost.

“Then you will serve me, Lion of Lannister. Should you return me to Winterfell, I vow that you shall always have a place in my home and…” she thought for a moment, “...meat and mead at my table. And that I shall ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor—”

She took a step forward this time, warm skin meeting cold steel as she pulled his gold hand to her. “—I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

In navigating her conundrum of games and questions, he had wondered how he was even going to make his vows known— whether he was going to kneel or grovel or simply take her hand and pray to any God still listening that she would know how he had saved the ghost of his faith for her. Like most things, he had managed to express it in his own way. Express that she was good and gentle and resilient and that she mattered.

He hesitated to touch her, instinctively wanting to preserve her skin that had endured too much. But for the first time since he had begun watching over her ever so tentatively, she smiled a smile that wasn’t stained with tears and didn’t twist the muscles in her face that wanted to scream and cry. She smiled a strong smile and offered a reassuring nod, and with her permission, he took the warm, tiny hand that rest on cold steel and squeezed. Every question that had plagued Jaime until now— how many obstacles his presence might create for her, what unknown reasons she had for even letting him live, how long she planned to continue letting him live— all melted like summer snow. As his eyes found the damp, braided copper that hung off her shoulder, he simply said, “As your guard, I must warn you that you’re going to catch a cold.”

And Sansa laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> There will probably be a prequel to to give background on Season 5, but for reference, many of the preceding events in question are more in line with A Feast for Crows and would take place after Jaime lifts the seige at River Run (aka no more unhealthy or abusive relationships for anyone at this point, unlike canon Season 5).  
> I'll probably be writing these little snippets out of sequence, since my inspiration doesn't really come in chronological order, as much as I would like it to. I'm really sorry in advance if context is confusing for these scenes, but I'll try to be as thorough as possible both in and out of narrative so the timeline still makes sense. I don't want to wait until I can write everything in order because then I'll just procrastinate and never publish anything.  
> I would also like to emphasize that at this point in said timeline, Sansa is 18-19 years old, and any romance written does not occur or develop before that point. I will never support or write a romantic/sexual relationship between a minor and an adult, no matter how muddled that line can seem in the source content (I am aware that child marriage is legal in Westeros, that still doesn't make it okay, nor does it make me comfortable writing it to be okay). I also fully acknowledge that despite her being an adult, there is still a large age difference between her and Jaime. Throughout writing this, I will keep that power imbalance in mind, as will my narrative. If at any point my writing seems to romanticize or fetishize the age gap between these characters, please let me know and I will make all necessary adjustments so that everyone reading my work feels comfortable.


End file.
